


Lapdog

by whiskeyandspite



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Book 1, D/s overtones, M/M, Pet Play, damen is a stubborn butt., dub con, implied BDSM, laurent is horrid still
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 21:16:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6210394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“It’s about time I turned my brute into a lapdog.”</i>
</p><p>Laurent decides to play with his toy a little more than canon allowed him to in book one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lapdog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WendigoDreaming](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendigoDreaming/gifts).



> For the [dweebs](http://dweeby.tumblr.com/). Thank you darling sweet.
> 
> ...I could possibly continue this. yay or nay?
> 
> Also on my [Tumblr](http://suntosirius.tumblr.com/post/140789019782/okayokayokay-i-feel-like-super-deprived-of-ds-sex).

First and foremost, Laurent likes to watch.

When Damen is prepared for him, after the near-ritualistic morning bath, he stands and watches. Damen can hear his footsteps echo through the hollow chamber, the water giving it a ringing quality the pet room doesn’t have, as he moves to stand just behind him when he’s bent and restrained and fingered open with sweet-smelling oil.

The preparations are always tender, always invasive, and Laurent always watches.

Of course the preparations are entirely superfluous, as Laurent takes deliberate pleasure in not touching Damen for the rest of the day. So Damen takes to touching himself, curled up in the silks and the pillows of the pet room, brows furrowed in displeasure, forcing the task to be clinical, necessary to dispel distractions so he can spend the rest of his time thinking of impossible plans of escape and unlikely chances of rescue.

After three days, it’s impossible to remain clinical.

After five, Damen finds his mind invaded by thoughts of Laurent’s cool blue eyes on him when he touches, despite his best efforts.

After a week, Damen finds that he can’t bring himself to completion unless he imagines himself watched. It’s infuriating.

After ten days, he lifts his eyes to find polished boots in his vision, stepping lightly between the pillows, until they come to stand before him. With a swallow, Damen lifts his eyes to follow the long legs to the perfectly proportioned torso and the elegantly lifted brow of the prince who looks calmly down upon him.

After ten days, Damen finds absolutely no release, despite his most ardent and filthy fantasies. He needs more than the memory of cold calculating eyes, he needs them on him, as they are now. He can feel heat pool at the base of his belly and refuses to move from his semi-prone position. He hardly has to.

“Dogs train faster than you.” Laurent points out, arms coming to fold across his chest in a deliberate and practiced motion.

“Then get a dog,” Damen responds, tilting his head enough to keep one eye on Laurent, his other half closed against the silk beneath his cheek. The prince considers the response as he considers anything Damen says; with an air of boredom and haughty indifference, as though words moved by his lips are an empty breeze not worth suffering. Then he sighs.

“I suppose I must fashion one,” Laurent tells him, the toes of his boots pushing aside a pillow in an absent gesture. “As I only have you to play hound for me. Come.”

“Where?”

“Where I tell you.” Laurent’s tone bodes no argument. He bends, then, to tug at the chain that holds Damen fastened to the floor, tongue clicking in displeasure. He lets it drop and turns to beckon a guard in with one delicate hand. “Unchain him from the floor,” he says, holding his palm out for the end of the tether when it’s freed. “Return to your post, I don’t need an escort.”

When he turns to Damen again it is with no sigh and no sound, barely a movement of his head at all. He tugs the chain in lieu of words and wraps it around his palm once when Damen makes to stand.

“Crawl,” he tells him, tone almost surprised that he has to explain this. “No dog walks on its hind legs until trained.”

“I’m no dog,” Damen says.

“And you’re not trained. Move.” Another tug. Another clearly made point, and Damen has no choice but to follow the prince on hands and knees across the pet room towards one of the alcoves deeper within. It’s humiliating, made all the more so by the fact that his body is still tense with need from the morning’s preparation and observation. Damen moves until Laurent stops, and then settles on his hip, deliberately refusing to go to his knees as a slave would.

Laurent hardly pays him heed. Instead, he settles on the soft seat that runs the curved wall of the alcove and crosses one leg over the other at the knee. “You’ve caught me in a merciful mood,” he says after a moment. “Where I am willing to train an animal instead of merely breaking it.”

“How lucky I am.” Damen replies, eyes up just enough to deliver a look Laurent entirely ignores.

“Quite.” Delicate fingers seek out behind him, knuckles skimming over items Damen had not immediately noticed. Upon the wall hang implements of every style and sort, some familiar and others frightening in their strangeness. Vere is a city of debauchery, a thriving den of iniquity, yet even knowing that Damen is daily surprised by the depth of its age-long depravity.

The prince takes his time stroking along the items available to him, lingering against soft-seeming strands of worked leather, thin chains attached to clamps with cruel looking teeth, rods and jeweled phalluses, until finally stopping at a gentle coil of fur. It is this that Laurent takes down, eyes to it as soft as they never are on Damen as he turns it in his hand. From a distance, even as small as the one Damen deliberately keeps between them, it looks harmless. Perhaps an implement to tickle with, to gentle against skin and create sensation. But surely something so innocent would not find itself on a wall of the pet quarters.

“Creatures turn away from their natural actions when they forget what they are,” Laurent comments absently, turning the little toy in his hands to rest against his thighs instead. Damen glances to it but doesn’t let his eyes linger. He certainly doesn’t let his distaste and worry show in the tensing of his lips or the bare narrowing of his brows. It is disgust at the man before him, nothing more. “It is a mercy to be reminded, and guided back.”

Laurent’s hands turn the toy once more and Damen moves back far enough for the chain holding his collar bound to Laurent’s hand to pull taut. At the end of the little thing is a plug, elegantly curved and tapered at the end. It seems to be carved of dark hard wood, ebony perhaps, and attached firmly to the fur. The plug fits snug in Laurent’s hand and when he lets the fur flick free, Damen can see it for what it is.

A tail.

“I’ve too long left my dog without attention,” Laurent laments. “Too long let run wild and turn into a beast.” He tugs the chain swiftly, a brief thing that should do nothing more than irritate, but does enough to bring Damen to all fours before the prince. A polished toe of an immaculate boot sets beneath Damen’s chin and tilts it up so he can meet narrowed eyes and a cruelly sweet smirk. Laurent leans in.

“It’s about time I turned my brute into a lapdog.”


End file.
